by Lesley Kelly
‘Merchandise,’ said Lachie, through a mouthful of Mars bar. He hadn’t lost any weight recently.
‘What kind of merchandise?’
Lachie just smiled. ‘What are you looking for?’
Within the week a couple of laddies-with-dogs arrived to pick up the boxes, and a week later brought another set. I put the boxes to the back of my mind and spent the time cleaning the kitchen. I wasn’t the greatest chef in the world, but I did have some standards.
I tried to leave, I really did, but I’d burnt my bridges. After I’d been at Lachie’s about a year I phoned my dad. Well, I tried Florrie first of all but the number I had for her wasn’t working. My dad answered on the first ring.
‘Hi Dad, it’s me, Joseph.’
There was a long pause, and I realised this wasn’t going to be a prodigal-son-welcomed-back-into-the-fold situation. He finally spoke. ‘I wondered when you’d be in touch.’
‘Dad…’ I wanted to ask him if I could come and stay with him, but I didn’t have the nerve.
‘What, Joe? What do you want? Because if it’s money I’ve none to spare, seeing as I’m covering your responsibilities to your children.’
That was humiliating but he wasn’t done yet. ‘Are you staying with that Stoddart laddie now? Are you on the payroll of that mob?’
‘Sort of,’ I mumbled.
‘Well, you can stay away from me, and from your brother. And leave Florrie alone too.’
There wasn’t much I could say to that, so we both held on in silence for a minute before my dad softened slightly.
‘I’m glad to hear you’re not dead, son, but I’m not getting involved with you and the Stoddarts.’
‘Dad…’
‘What?’
And there were a million things that I wanted to say, from blaming him for me being in this state, to begging him to come and take me home, but I couldn’t trust myself to speak without crying, so I hung up the phone.
Sunday
Despite my tiredness I can’t sleep. I’m going over and over in my head the events of the past few days. The painkillers Dr Evelyn gave me are wearing off and my face is hurting. I can’t lie with my scar against the pillow because it hurts too much, but when I turn on the other side the cold air on it feels even worse.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed I reach over and put the lamp on. Catching sight of my reflection in the dressing table mirror, I sit on the edge of the bed and take a good look at myself. I’m too thin. Too thin and too pale, apart from the bright red scar on my left cheek. My hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for weeks, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it but it looks like there’s twice as much grey as there was a week ago.
I can’t settle, so I get dressed and slip out of the houses as quietly as possible, trying not to wake Father Paul.
Once I’m outside I don’t know where to go. I take a turn past the church and walk up to the Foot o’ the Walk, the distance that Mrs Stoddart is supposed to have staggered while bleeding to death. Every step that I take confirms to me that it’s just not possible that she could make it that far on her own. I sit on the bench for a minute and stare up at the statue of Queen Victoria. In this light she bears more than a fleeting resemblance to Isa Stoddart. Neither of them were ever amused.
My feet lead me on, and I wander up Leith Walk as far as McDonald Road. I cross the road then turn off along Brunswick Road past the Royal Mail sorting office and onto Easter Road. It’s a beautiful morning and there’s nobody about. I remember that it’s Sunday, so that’s not surprising. It’s just as well it is so quiet – I’m not a pretty looking sight. I’d scare the living daylights out of anyone I bumped into. Well, almost anyone.
The road goes up a hill until I reach the Palace of Holyrood House. When we were little Grandad Joe used to bring Colin and me here on the days that the Queen was staying in town, in the hope that he would catch sight of her. The waiting around was pretty boring and on the rare occasions that we did see Her Majesty it was all a bit of an anticlimax; as far as we were concerned it was a lot of fuss over a middle-aged woman. Florrie never came with us so maybe she felt the same.
I wander further up the High Street, then turn along St Mary’s Street onto the Cowgate; this is the heart of Edinburgh’s Old Town now. A couple of minutes later I realise that I’m standing outside the building that used to be Raiders bar. It isn’t called that now, in fact it’s not even a pub these days. It’s a pity Raiders closed down; it was a good place to work, and Rob was a fine boss. I wonder if he stuck with the pub trade. I hope Guthrie didn’t break his legs.
Shortly after I deserted Rob for a life on the high seas I read a story in the papers about one of the neighbouring pubs. The pub had played a very minor part in the Cold War by assisting in the defection of a Romanian rugby player. The entire Romanian and Scottish teams had returned from Murrayfield to the pub, accompanied by the Communist team minders. The sympathetic bar owner, an ex-Rugby internationalist himself, helped the laddie to escape through the network of tunnels under the bar. The boy, all 6’6” of him, popped up several hundred metres away, and announced to a very surprised policeman that he was seeking political asylum.
Asylum. If only.
1999
Paula was an optimist, a ‘the glass is half full’ girl, a ‘the world’s not going to hell in a handbasket’ sort of person. I’d stake my life that whatever situation she ended up in she’d make the best of it. I tried to take a leaf out of her book, I really did, and I wanted to make the best of things, but I just lacked some of her energy. I’d lost my wife and family, I was homeless and dependent on the whims of a psychopath for any kind of income.
I knew I should be out there looking for work, or trying to mend some fences with Dad and Florrie, but I just couldn’t rouse myself. I’d always been one to go with the flow, relying on someone else to make things happen. I realised that in my whole life I’d only ever made two decisions: one to move to Edinburgh, and the other one to run away from it.
And unlike Paula, my glass was never half full. Mine was either full or empty. After a couple of months at Lachie’s I really started drinking in earnest. Up until that point I could kid myself that I was a social drinker, that everybody had a drink too many when they’re at sea, that everyone consoled themselves when their marriage breaks up. But you can only wake up on so many pavements, or strange flats, or Polis cells before you realise you have a problem. And realising you have a problem isn’t the same as having the will to do anything about it.
Lachie, for all that he was an essential cog at the centre of the Stoddart business, didn’t seem to have an awful lot more to do with his day than I did. We both appeared to have fairly vague job descriptions which involved keeping out of Mrs Stoddart’s hair. There was no girlfriend or anything on the scene, so it usually fell to me to keep Lachie entertained.
Lachie had strong opinions on taking drugs. Heroin was for junkie losers, obviously, and cocaine was for yuppy bastards. Ecstasy, speed and blow were all acceptable. But Lachie’s drug of choice was ketamine, which in its day job is a horse tranquiliser. Seeing as Lachie had the constitution of a horse, it was an appropriate choice. Lachie took K for its strong hallucinogenic properties, although Christ knows what he saw when he was tripping. It probably gave him delusions that he was a gangster.
The side effects weren’t pleasant, particularly for me. Lachie’s long-term use of the stuff gave him panic attacks. More than once we ended up in a taxi heading for the Royal Infirmary with him thinking he was having a heart attack, and me hoping that he was. It made him depressed, on top of the depression that he suffered from anyway, on account of being a fat, useless bastard. And my personal favourite: when he was lying there in a K-induced stupor he often pissed himself. If Isa Stoddart had had any idea how often I had to haul her deadweight son to the bathroom and wipe his backside for him, she wouldn’t have complained about my wages.
The only positive thing about Lachie’s regular drug consu
mption was the fact that 6 nights out of 7 he was off his trolley by 9 pm, and lying insensible in his chair. This allowed me the opportunity to get out of the house and drink myself stupid without Lachie peering over my shoulder. Knowing that at night I could escape from Lachie’s madhouse for a few hours was the only thing that kept me sane. If sane is the right word.
I tried a few pubs before settling on a regular haunt. I knew what I was looking for in a pub, and I knew what I didn’t want, which was: conversation, titillation, juke boxes or hot food. I just wanted somewhere I could sit at the bar on my own, and down pint after pint without anybody bothering me. When I walked into Shugs I knew I’d found what I was looking for.
The only thing wrong with Shugs was this mouthy git by the name of Murphy. The man had an opinion on everything, and he was happy to share it with the entire pub, whether we wanted it or not. He’d got a view on current affairs, economics, politics, philosophy, and history, with a particular focus on the economic and social history of the working classes. Not that I wanted to make anything of it, like I said, I just wanted peace.
One night, after a particularly hard day of humouring Lachie I decided I couldn’t take Murphy’s witterings about class war any longer.
‘Hey – you!’
Murphy stopped open-mouthed. ‘Are you talking to me, son?’
I nodded. ‘Aye – going to knock it on the head will you?’
A hush fell over the pub, not that it was exactly noisy at the best of times.
He stood staring at me with his head on one side, as if he was examining me. ‘Knock it on the head?’
I nodded again, not quite as confidently as before. ‘Aye.’
He tilted his head over to the other side. ‘Are you saying you don’t want to hear what Ramsey MacDonald did in 1931?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’ I was trying to be assertive but I wished everybody wasn’t looking at me. It was like being out with Lachie when he started a fight.
The Murphy character got off his bar stool and hobbled toward me.
‘Are you saying that you don’t want to know about the incident that started the slow decline of the party of the working classes? Are you saying that you don’t want an explanation of how a fine working man such as yourself came to be sitting at that bar stool, on your own, drowning your sorrows?’
The barman and the regulars were all trying not to laugh. I wasn’t quite sure how to stop the onslaught of questions, and in spite of myself I was suddenly quite interested in what he’d got to say. If he could explain how I came to be here I was all ears. I took the bait.
‘An explanation?’
‘Oh aye, son.’ He leapt on to the bar stool next to mine, with a great deal more ease than he made it across the floor. ‘Buy me a pint and I’ll tell you how you ended up here, sitting on that stool with your face tripping you.’
Without me saying yea or nay the barman poured us two pints of lager, and I could feel the tension leave the room. I think the regulars were glad that Murphy was preoccupied with me and leaving them to their pints.
Murphy downed half his pint, belched, and stuck out his hand. ‘Michael Murphy, although most people call me Wheezy on account of my unfortunate asthmatical condition.’
I shook his hand with some trepidation. ‘Joseph Staines.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Stainsie. Now where was I?’
‘You were about to tell me how Ramsay MacDonald was to blame for all my ills.’
He gave a gracious nod of his head. ‘He is.’
‘So it’s Ramsay MacDonald’s fault that I’m homeless?’
‘Oh aye,’ he said through a mouthful of lager.
‘And it’s his fault I haven’t got a job?’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Undoubtedly.’
‘And it’s down to him that my wife is off shagging another man?’
He gave a broad grin. ‘Old RM might as well have been porking her himself, he’s so much at fault.’ He downed the rest of his pint and ordered another one for himself, though I noted he didn’t feel compelled to get me one.
‘Picture the scene, Stainsie. It’s 1931. Ramsay MacDonald is leading the Labour Party, who are only remaining in power because they’ve got the support of Lloyd George’s Liberals. Are you with me so far?’
‘Aye.’ Just about.
‘Britain is feeling the chill blowing across the Atlantic from America.’
I must have been looking a bit blank because he said crossly, ‘The Great Depression – 1929 – Wall Street and all that.’
I gave an embarrassed nod. ‘Oh aye – that.’
‘And the Cabinet can’t decide how to respond to the Depression. Half of them want to spend their way out of it, and the other half, including MacDonald, want to cut unemployment benefit and balance the budget.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘There’s a schism. MacDonald for the life of him can’t get his Cabinet to unite, so you know what he does?’
I was in danger of getting interested in this. ‘What?’
‘He submits his resignation as leader of the Labour Party, and sets up a National Government with the Conservatives and Liberals.’ He leant back on his barstool, and I sensed I was supposed to look outraged at this point. I did my best, and waited for him to go on. He didn’t.
‘Sorry, Wheezy, I’m not quite sure how this relates to me.’
He pokes me in the chest. ‘Ramsay MacDonald gave into The Fear.’
‘The fear? The fear of what?’
He slid off the bar stool and stood too close to me for my liking. Very softly he said, ‘The Fear that us working class folk can’t sort things out by ourselves. The Fear that had Ramsay MacDonald hanging on the coat-tails of his betters, The Fear that had Wilson running to the IMF, The Fear that had Callaghan running for shelter in Europe. Ramsay MacDonald gave into The Fear and it’s echoed down the years, until it’s come to rest on you, my friend.’
I’d got no idea what he was on about. ‘I’m suffering from The Fear?’
He nods vigorously. ‘Oh aye, pal. A classic case of working class angst. You are sitting there, crippled with the indecision that you have inherited from generations past. Your situation isn’t your fault, son. It’s Ramsay MacDonald’s.’
Not my fault? I didn’t think much of his reasoning, but I did like his conclusions. I caught the barman’s eye.
‘Two more pints over here, pal.’
Sunday
When I return to the Priest’s House I fall asleep in one of the armchairs in the living room. I’m woken up by someone hammering on the front door. I have a discreet look out of the window, but it’s only Wheezy.
‘Jesus Christ! That’s one hell of a love bite!’
I pull him inside so I can get the door shut as quickly as possible. ‘It’s not funny, Wheezy. I nearly got killed last night.’
He holds up his hands by way of apology. ‘Meikle?’
‘Aye, he walked in on us at his office. Your Marianne is no great shakes as a lookout.’
He looks annoyed. ‘She shouldn’t have been there in the first place.’
I’m outraged. ‘Neither should I! So don’t come up with any more ideas that could get me battered.’
He looks as if he’s about to argue further, then changes the subject. ‘Did Meikle know who you were?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think so. He thought I was just some junkie looking for loose cash.’
‘That’s something at least.’
I nod. ‘You want a cup of tea, Wheeze?’
‘Aye.’
We sit at the kitchen table and I try to eat my breakfast without chewing, because every time I chew my scar hurts.
‘I’ve been thinking about all this.’
I drop the spoon into the bowl. ‘Oh, that’s good, Wheeze, ’cause the last time you did some thinking you came up with an idea that ended with me getting my face cut open.’
His eyes flicker toward my scar. ‘Aye, wel
l, we’ve been going about this wrong.’
‘Oh aye?’ I couldn’t be less interested in Wheeze’s theories.
He nods. ‘Aye. What we need to do is work out what the catalyst for all this has been.’
‘The catalyst?’ I say, then wish I hadn’t encouraged him.
‘Yes, what was the very first thing that happened that set all the events in motion. If we know that, we can work out what Meikle’s up to.’
He’s staring at me and I realise I’m not going to get my breakfast in peace. I have a couple more painful chews of my Rice Krispies then say, ‘Well, the first thing that happened was Mrs Stoddart getting done in.’
He shakes his head violently. ‘No, it wasn’t. Cause and effect, Stainsie-boy – Isa’s death was a result of the catalyst.’
This is hard work. ‘OK. How about, if before Isa’s death Meikle came to town.’
‘Because…?’ He circles his hand around.
‘Because Guthrie Stoddart took ill.’ I’m getting into my stride here. ‘And remember those bank statements that we saw of Mrs Stoddart’s? About six months ago she stopped paying the £20,000 into that Spanish bank account every month.’
‘Interesting.’ Wheezy nods. ‘So Guthrie takes ill, and Isa seizes the opportunity to stop paying him his monthly share. However, his associate out there on the Costa del Crime gets pretty pissed off that the income has stopped.’
I wave my spoon. ‘He comes over here, intent on killing Mrs Stoddart…’
‘Or maybe even just to talk to her, but ends up killing her…’
‘Either way, Mrs Stoddart’s dead, but he can’t get his hands on her money, ’cause she’s got it all tied up in her company.’
Wheezy nods again. ‘So he tries to get hold of the money legally, well kind-of legally, by taking control of the company.’
‘So, as a director he would have say over what happened to the profits of the company?’
‘Well, up to a point.’ Wheezy takes a long drink of his tea. ‘The shareholders are the people with the real clout – they can vote the directors off the Board.’
